by Sam Short
Boris shook his head. “No. The cooks have gone to so much trouble — it would be rude of me. I’ll put my feels aside and eat what’s been prepared.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” said Maeve. “Nobody should eat out of guilt! I’ll get Matilda to bring you in some lovely hay, and maybe a nice rosy red apple.”
“Of course, Miss Maeve,” beamed Matilda. “It would be my pleasure.”
“I want the pork,” murmured Boris, a spark of annoyance in his eyes. “Give me some pork.”
Granny scowled. “You fickle little attention seeking bast —”
Willow and Mum gasped, and Barney blushed.
“Apple sauce, sir?” said Matilda, her voice loud enough to drown out Granny’s profanities.
“That would be divine, lovely Matilda,” said Boris. “And maybe a nice bit of crackling? From the belly of the beast?”
“Your wish is my desire, sir,” said Matilda, piling Boris’s plate high with food.
Boris tucked in, gravy dripping from his beard, as everyone else was served and Matilda left the room, pushing the pig before her. “Ring when you’d like coffee, Miss Maeve,” she said as she left the room.
The food was delicious, and nobody spoke for a few minutes as the clank of silver cutlery on fine china echoed around the room, interspersed by sounds of appreciation and the occasional belch from Granny, who shifted the blame onto Boris with covert sideways jerks of her head. When the plates were empty, and Matilda had wheeled in coffee and the drinks cabinet for Boris, Maeve leaned forward. “If everyone’s had their fill of food, allow me to make a suggestion as to how you approach the search for the lost witches.”
Barney slid his notebook and pencil from his pocket. “That would be a great help,” he said. “It’s always a good idea to have local knowledge.”
“If it’s local knowledge you want, lawman,” said Maeve, “then you need look no further than a particularly shady business premises in the city. The Nest of Vipers — a tavern, as the name suggests, has a reputation for quenching the thirsts of some of the less desirable characters in the city. You’ll find it near the clock tower. Be cautious though, and don’t mention my name. You’ll get no help if you do. A conversation with some of the tavern’s patrons may point you in the right direction”
“Got it,” said Barney, writing in his book.
“I must admit to having a great feeling of unease,” said Maeve, “and not just for the safety of the lost witches, but for The Haven itself.”
“Why?” said Mum.
“The power that the dwarfs told you of, and that Hilda spoke of,” said Maeve, “troubles me immensely.” She drained her coffee cup and sat back. “When I created The Haven,” she said, “there was nothing here. I had to magic a home to live in, and as time went on and more witches arrived, we began building our homes — we were prouder of homes we’d constructed with our own hands than homes conjured up by magic.” She paused for a moment, deep in thought. “And then I found it.”
“Found what?” said Boris, pushing an empty saucer towards Granny who topped it up with brandy from the impressive drinks cabinet.
Maeve frowned. “The only building in this land that nobody built or conjured into existence. A castle… hidden in the mountains to the west, overlooking a great lake. It’s a beautiful building, and one I tried to enter repeatedly, but alas — I couldn’t.”
“You can’t get into it?” said Willow. “Why?”
“It is protected by a spell,” said Maeve. “A spell so powerful, that even I, the creator of The Haven, cannot break.”
“If you didn’t create the castle or cast the spell… who did?” asked Mum, reaching for a third biscuit from the plate Matilda had supplied with the drinks.
Maeve shook her head. “I do not know, but I found a stone nearby, hidden from view, with an inscription gouged into its surface.”
“What was written on the stone?” said Granny.
Maeve sighed. “It says, the holder of the one true power will come from the east bearing a jewel, and the castle will be claimed. Only the true ruler of this land can break the spell.”
“You’re the true ruler of The Haven, Maeve,” said Mum. “You created it. There must be a mistake.”
“I thought as much, Maggie,” said Maeve, “but things are happening — witches are vanishing and people are speaking of a power that only I should know of — I put my own spell around the castle and the existing spell, so nobody else can get near to it — nobody but me knows of that stone or the castle, I’m the only person to have been there, and the only person who knows of its existence.” She looked around the table. “Until now, but I know in my soul that I can trust each one of you with this information… even you, Gladys Weaver.”
“Your words cut me deep, Maeve,” said Granny. “How rude. How very rude, and to think I could have been back in Wickford, showing off in my new Range Rover and tending to my chickens, but yet I chose to come here and help you solve the mystery of the lost witches! I’m offended, Maeve. Off-en-ded.”
Electric buzzed in the air around Maeve, and her whole demeanour changed. “As offended as I was when you chopped down the magic rose bush, or fought a guerrilla war against Derek, in the west? The poor man had to move to the east and change his name from The Copper Haired Wizard of The West, because of you, Gladys. You have a colourful history in The Haven, Gladys, and you should be pleased that I ever lifted your banishment and allowed you back in. The fact that I now trust you is a bonus indeed. I even gave you the cure for your dementia, which for a reason known only to you, you still haven’t taken.”
Granny filled Boris’s saucer again, her cheeks showing the gentle blush of embarrassment. “My apologies, Maeve,” she said. “I spoke out of turn.”
Barney gave me a sideways glance. We both knew why Granny had backed down so quickly, but we’d promised one another we’d keep it a secret between the two of us. If Granny still hadn’t taken the cure by the time we got back to Wickford, we would confront her. It wasn’t fair on Charleston to be trapped inside the body of a goat because Granny had fallen in love with him, although he looked pretty happy lapping up the brandy which Granny was feeding him. He’d last another few days.
Granny pointed at the wall behind Maeve, completely changing the subject. “Who’s that handsome hunk of man?” she said, gazing at a portrait of a young muscular man with thick dark hair. “I wouldn’t throw him out of bed for playing the bagpipes.”
Mum bristled. She had an irrational dislike of the Scottish, and the image of a man playing their national musical instrument in a bed had obviously hit a nerve.
“Granny!” laughed Willow. “He’s far too young for you! I wouldn’t mind meeting him, though!”
“He’s nothing special,” grunted Boris.
Maeve turned to look at the portrait. “You’ve met him, Willow” she said, turning to face Granny. A smile played on her lips. “That’s the man who’s currently wooing your sister, Gladys,” she said. “That handsome hunk of man is Derek.”
Granny got to her feet and hurried to the painting. “Derek does not have black hair,” she protested, standing below the oil painted portrait and pushing her glasses further up her nose, as if by moving the lenses closer to her eyes she would make sense of what she was seeing. “He has dirty blond hair, which is never styled very well. He’s always reminded me of a scruffy scarecrow, and the man in this picture reminds me of a lovely librarian, or a high-class gigolo.”
“Those two professions don’t even belong in the same sentence,” said Boris. “Anyway, he’s not that good looking, his nose is too small for his eyes.”
Granny looked down at the goat who stood next to her, a little unsteady on his feet after downing nearly half a bottle of brandy. “Jealousy will get you nowhere, Boris,” she said. “Anyhow, if the portrait is of Derek, then I feel sick for even suggesting he’s good looking. Disgusting man that he is.”
Maeve gave a gentle laugh. “I can assure you it’s Derek,�
�� she said. “He dyes his hair with magic these days, but that’s what he looked like when he was first granted his haven entry spell, Gladys, many hundreds of years ago. And that’s how he looks right now as he takes your sister to his home in the east. Derek is shy of reverting to his younger age in front of most people, but not when it comes to impressing pretty young ladies like Eva.”
“The little harlot!” said Granny. “She knows Derek and I don’t get along, and she’s chosen to go gallivanting with him! Why she’d want to go to the east with him, I’ll never know, only farmers and failures live in the east!”
“Farmers?” said Willow, “why would farmers live in the east?”
“The climate,” said Mum, eating the last of the biscuits. “It’s wet and humid in the east, but dry and hot in most of the west. It’s no good trying to grow crops in the west without magic. The east is where most of the crops are grown. I’m not sure why your grandmother mentioned failures, though.”
Granny shrugged. “Farmers — failures, same difference.”
“Derek enjoys growing things from seed,” said Maeve. “He’s a simple man really, who got dragged into the politics of The Haven. I hope he and Eva enjoy themselves, Gladys. I’m sure they both deserve some happiness. Anyway, the east is a nice place to live. I have a home there myself, as does Hilda. She likes the peacefulness of the hills, it helps her to hone her visions.”
“Good for Hilda,” said Granny, “and Derek and Eva are welcome to each other. They can be farmers together. I always was the classiest sister.”
“Class comes in all types,” said Maeve, with a wink in my direction. “Would you all like to see more of my paintings? I keep the best ones in the library.”
“I’d love to,” said Willow.
“I’m quite the art critic,” said Boris, with a belch. “I’d like to cast my eye over your pieces, Maeve.”
“I’m sure you would,” said Granny, running her eyes along Maeve’s slim figure.
“Then follow me this way, please,” said Maeve, heading for the doorway. “You’ll like my library.”
Chapter Eight
The library smelt of leather and old books, which was no surprise, as long rows of old books lined the tall shelves, and leather furniture provided the seating. The huge book shelves filled two of the four walls and four sliding ladders made it easy to pick a book from even the highest shelf. The wall opposite the doorway was reserved for art, and Maeve had made sure to utilise every available piece of space with oil painted portraits, landscapes and stunning waterscapes.
“Impressive,” said Boris, wandering across the thick carpet and gazing up at the pieces. “Very impressive.”
Willow and I focused on the books, craning our necks to scan the shelves, noticing books we recognised from our world, and books with titles such as ‘Portal Travel - A Step Into The Unknown,’ which had obviously been written by an author from The Haven. Maeve stood at my side, smiling as I scanned the thousands of book spines. “I’m happy to see that you two appreciate books,” she said. “Books are the sturdy foundation that any advanced civilisation is built upon.”
“I love books,” said Willow, opening a leather-bound tome on ancient spell-craft and pressing her nose into the yellowed pages. “Mmmm,” she murmured, closing the book and sliding it back into place on a shelf. “You can’t beat the smell of old paper.”
“My word!” shrieked Mum, from the other side of the room. “You have a macabre taste in art, Maeve.”
“I think it’s wonderful,” said Boris, gazing at the wall above him. “It speaks of death and rebirth, and the evil that mankind is capable of. It’s a fine work of art indeed.”
“It reminds me of where I came from,” said Maeve, crossing the room. “Although on some days I’d rather not remember.”
Willow and I followed her and stood beneath the painting that had shocked Mum. It wasn’t as macabre as Mum’s reaction had made me believe, but it wasn’t the sort of painting I’d have liked on my wall either. Framed in dark wood and painted with an accomplished hand, the painting filled a huge portion of the wall, with life sized figures filling the canvas. The painting portrayed Maeve as she burned at the stake, and I gave her arm a gentle squeeze as a tear bulged in the corner of her eye. “It hurts every time I look at it,” she said, laying a soft hand over mine. “But it serves a purpose. It reminds me of why I don’t wish to become a dictator in my own land. Nasty things happen to good people when one person has too much power.”
“It’s barbaric,” said Barney. “Truly barbaric, and to think that this was allowed to happen in the country I enforce the law in, it makes me shudder.”
The painting showed Maeve tied to a stake surrounded by a tall pyre of logs. Bright orange flames licked at her legs and her face was contorted in pain as people in the background looked on in horror, with some women covering their children’s faces, and men staring at the ground in helpless despair. The second life sized figure in the painting couldn’t have been more different than the onlookers in the way he was portrayed as behaving. A tall black hat hid most of his long dark hair, and his face showed a horrific expression of glee, his teeth bared in a savage smile and his eyes wide and excited as he watched a woman burn.
“What an evil man,” said Granny.
“The Witch-finder General,” said Maeve, her hand still on mine, her fingers gripping me tight. “He was responsible for searching out and killing many witches, most of them with a trial which was only ever going to end in a verdict of guilt, quickly followed by the punishment of death by drowning or burning.”
“Dark times indeed,” murmured Boris. “Dark times indeed.”
Barney leaned closer to the painting, his height affording him a better view than the rest of us. “There’s something about his eyes,” he said, “something very evil.”
Maeve’s fingers closed tighter. “Not only was his cruelty rarer than most people’s,” she said, “but so were his eyes. Look closely, lawman, beneath his brows, and you’ll see his eyes are of different colours. He claimed they were a gift from God which gave him the ability to see witches where nobody else could. Those eyes were the last thing I saw before I closed my own and prepared to die.”
“You’re right,” murmured Barney, moving even nearer to the painting. “One eye is brown and one is green.”
“The artist did a good job,” said Maeve. “It was painted by a male witch who watched my near demise. He came into The Haven not long after my fortuitous escape from the jaws of fiery death. He told me that the Witch-finder General dug through the ashes of the pyre for one full day and one full night, searching for my ashes and bones, desperate to prove that God had not saved me from death as the other onlookers believed when I vanished in a flash of light.”
“But really, you’d been able to cast a spell so powerful that you created this wonderful land,” said Boris. “Remarkable.”
“And purely fate’s doing,” said Maeve. “I was prepared to die. Using magic to save myself would have resulted in more witches and innocent people dying when the Witch-finder took his revenge. I did not cast the spell, my magic did that for me.”
“How awful,” said Maggie. “We witches don’t know how good we have it these days.”
“I’m glad it is that way,” said Maeve, finally releasing my hand and wiping a tear from her cheek. “And I’m happy to be able to offer refuge in this land to anyone who should need it. The Haven has saved many a witch’s life in the centuries since it was created.”
The heavy door creaked behind us, and Matilda stepped into the room. “Do you require anything else, Miss Maeve? It’s getting late and I should be leaving for home.”
Maeve’s mood lifted. “No, Matilda. I need no more from you. Go now, and thank you for what you did for us today, the pork was heavenly, and your service was divine.”
Matilda performed a half bow, and left the room with a smile. “Thank you, Miss Maeve.”
Maeve glanced at a window high in the wall. “I
t is nearly dark, perhaps you should be getting back to your boat. I will be gone by the morning. I have my own investigations to carry out. While you good people search for the missing witches, I will be scouring the land for information on the great power that has been spoken of. Should you discover anything, do not hesitate to summon me again. I will come quickly.” She turned her back on the paintings. “I’ll summon my carriage.”
“I don’t know about everyone else,” I said, “but I’d like to walk.”
Barney agreed. “That’s how you get the feel of the pulse of a town — you walk the beat. I’ll walk with you, Penny.”
“As will I,” said Boris.
With all of us in agreement that an evening walk through the city would be pleasant, we said our goodbyes to Maeve on the steps outside the house, and promised to keep her updated about any developments in our search for the witches. Maeve had insisted we took the pouch of coins she offered us, explaining that currency would go a lot further than magical ability in a city such as the one we were in.
“Do we know the way?” said Boris, as we reached the end of the driveway and followed the dusty road downhill. “I didn’t take much notice on the way here, but to be fair on myself, I couldn’t see out of the carriage window.”
“I offered you a place on my lap, Boris,” said Granny, watching an elderly man light a street-lamp with a spell cast from the tip of a wand. “You chose to sit on the floor at my feet.”
“I’m way ahead of you all,” said Willow, walking half a pace in front of us. “It’s so easy to use magic here. I’ve cast a spell of direction — and used the boat as a beacon, it will lead me right to it.”
“Or we could just head in that direction,” said Barney, pointing at the twinkling lights of the docks below us. “Basic cub scout skills — walk downhill until you find water.”
Willow gave Barney a playful slap on his arm. “Spoilsport,” she said. “I don’t get to use magic much in the mortal world. Let me have my fun!”
“Lead the way,” said Barney. “I’m sure your way will take us via a quicker route than I would have.”
